


One Rose For Another

by JeanJacquesFrancois



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanJacquesFrancois/pseuds/JeanJacquesFrancois
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sansa Stark is taken from Kings Landing to marry Ser Loras, she is anticipating falling head over heels in love. </p><p>She is right only in part, for whilst she does find that love blossoms for her in Highgarden, it is most definitely not with her husband. </p><p>Told from Loras', Sansa's and Willas' perspectives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Loras

He’s his father’s favourite son, he always has been, and yet it’s not enough this time.

He has refused, he has argued, he has even stooped to pleading with his father. It does him no good. His words falls on deaf ears and still his father refuses to listen when he begs him for a final time not to make him go through with the marriage to Sansa Stark. 

Margaery has been sold thrice, to three different kings, each as far removed from the other as the relentless snows of the North are from the hot sands of Dorne, and yet each with the Baratheon name. 

It’s his turn now and there’s nothing he can say or do to change it.

“It's past time you grew out of these childish... games you play son.” his father says and Loras knows without having to be told that he’s talking about Renly. 

His mother puts a hand on his shoulder when he says that, her fingers are soft and sympathetic and if they had been alone in the room, Loras might have turned and clung to her, grown knight as he is. He wants to find it in him to protest, to lash out angrily and make his father understand that what he had with Renly was no game and yet the fight has long been knocked out of him. As it is, he can only stand there and shake his head vehemently, angry tears threatening to well up despite the press of his mother’s hand on his shoulder. 

His father continues. “Sansa Stark could very well be the key to the north. You will do your duty as Margaery has done hers.”

Willas steps forward then, limping as he leans heavily on his cane and tries to reason with their father. He volunteers once more to take Loras’ place, to marry the Stark girl in Loras’ stead if the poor girl will consent to a cripple. 

Their father will have none of it however and he waves Willas’ kind selfless words aside like he did their mother’s pleas earlier and blusters about the room. “You are the heir to Highgarden Willas.” He says. “If the young wolf survives this war then his sister will be all but worthless. I will not have my eldest son and heir wasted on such a gamble.” He pauses and nods curtly, his face set. “No Loras will do well enough.” 

It is not said but Loras knows what their father is thinking. For a son who was always going to be hard to marry off, the Stark girl is too convenient an option for his father to pass by. She is too young, too naïve, altogether too alone in the world to protest at such a match. She will walk up the aisle with no idea as to the sorts of things Loras has engaged in behind closed doors, acts of love which he knows most call sins. 

Willas quietens then and Loras sees him exchanges a defeated glance with Garlan. The only person that could turn their father now is their grandmother, and yet for once the Queen of Thorns is silent. 

Loras knows then that his fate is sealed and he turns away, walking out of the door with his head held high and yet running to his chambers as soon as he is out of sight. 

Sat alone in his rooms, he longs for Margaery, for her kind words and her sisterly caresses. Most of all though, he longs for Renly, for his gentle touch in darkened rooms and his soothing voice in his ear. 

His brothers do their best however and they come to sit with him the night before Sansa Stark is set to arrive, the girl having been stolen out of Kings Landing a week past to meet the fate she is not entirely yet aware of. 

Their union will be the very same day and whilst weddings are supposed to be joyous occasions, there are no jokes, no japes and even Garlan does not smile as the evening slips away into darkness and beckons on the dawn. Instead both his brothers sit quietly beside him, Willas smoothing the bed covers as Loras sits silently up in bed, his arms around his knees as he tries to remember the last time he made love in this bed. It was over a year ago now he thinks, the night after Margaery’s first wedding perhaps, or maybe the morning before they left for Bitterbridge. 

The next time will be quite different he thinks and he turns to Garlan. “Is it difficult?” He asks, drawing the covers that Willas has just smoothed down back over his knees. 

“Is what difficult?” Garlan asks.

“Taking a girl’s maidenhead?” He meets Garlan’s gaze. “Will I hurt her?”

Garlan sighs. “There will be pain, but if you're gentle it may be brief. Take your time, make her comfortable, let her tell you when she's ready.”

Loras bites back a sigh. He has never gone to bed with a women, let alone taken one’s maidenhead, and yet he knows better than most perhaps the pain of making love. His own pain had been almost unbearable the first time and even long after he had grown to enjoy such things, he had often found himself wincing, even crying out sometimes. Renly had always been there though, with soft smiles and gentle touches, loving words on his lips as he kissed away the pain.

He will have to try to do the same for Sansa Stark and yet he is not hopeful he can.


	2. Sansa

It has been a long, difficult journey from Kings Landing and yet her heart is more hopeful than it has been for a year as she steps down from the wheelhouse.

Margaery has not lied. Highgarden is beautiful, every inch as beautiful as she has been led to believe. The air is sweet and the sun warm on her face as the captain of the guard takes her arm, his cloak a reassuring green instead of the usual blood red as he escorts her up the steps. 

She tries to hold herself high as she ascends the steps into Highgarden. Joffrey will haunt her dreams no more here, buried deep in the crypts underneath the Great Sept of Baelor as he is, far away from this place. She tries to smile. Kings Landing is far behind her, the Queen Regent is far behind her; here she will be a lady rather than a hostage. 

Indeed, Lord and Lady Tyrell are waiting for her at the top and lord Mace takes her arm when she reaches them as is courteous. They are kind it seems and one after the other her good-parents-to-be kiss her on both cheeks and call her daughter even though officially Sansa will still be a daughter of Winterfell until this afternoon, a grey cloak still heavy about her shoulders despite the summer sun. 

Lady Alerie beckons for her to walk at her side as they lead her through the vast gardens and Sansa finds her a reassuring presence. She does wish though for her own mother, and wonders where Lady Catelyn is now and whether she is aware that her eldest daughter is about to be married this very afternoon.

Most like, her mother is at Robb’s side with no way of knowing where Sansa is but all the same she likes to imagine her in Winterfell, her long auburn hair falling onto her shoulder and with Sansa in her thoughts. 

She wonders whether Ser Loras will allow her to visit home when the war is over and when what’s left of her family can return to Winterfell. Perhaps he will escort her there himself and she smiles as she thinks of how charming it would be to ride through the gates, lifted atop Ser Loras’ horse like maidens always are in the songs, with his strong arms around her waist and white roses in her hair. 

She doesn’t know where to look as lady Alerie leads her through the vast gardens for everything seems so lovely. Roses grow everywhere, along the paths and up trellises, their petals soaking up the midday sun. Even the trees are in blossom and Sansa resists the urge to reach out and pluck a bloom, thinking perhaps that it is time to put such childish whims away. She is a woman now and after this afternoon she will be a lady of Highgarden, no longer a child of Winterfell. She will have no need to pick her own flowers and she smiles as she imagines her husband-to-be bending down to kiss her from his mount, lance still in hand as he drapes a wreath of flowers about her shoulders, his queen of love and beauty. 

She had been hopeful that Ser Loras would be here to greet her but there is no sign of the gallant knight of flowers even as they enter the great hallway. 

Ser Garlan however is waiting by the door, his lady wife and a man Sansa doesn’t recognize at his side. Lady Leonette has flowers in her hair and as she smiles at her, Sansa is hopeful that she, like Margaery, will also become like a sister to her. Her own true sister has never been found and Sansa’s heart clenches as she tries desperately not to think of what may have become of Arya. She thinks wryly though of all the times she told Arya that she wouldn’t want her at her wedding, that she was too scruffy, too unladylike, that she’d ruin everything. Looking back now, she realises quite how silly those concerns had been. She’d give anything for Arya to be here now. 

It’s easier to put Arya out of her mind though when Ser Garlan grins, taking her hand and kissing it, earning him a playful nudge from his wife. 

“Lady Sansa.” His smile is genuine and his hand warm on hers. “I do hope you will be happy here and that our brother will not bore you too much.”

She returns the smile with a confidence she hasn’t felt since her father still stood beside her and allows him to put a hand on the small of her back and introduce her to the man stood beside him. 

He’s leaning heavily on a stick and Sansa realises quickly that this is the crippled heir to Highgarden she has often heard courtiers mention that she’s about to be introduced to. 

In her mind she had imagined something alike to the Lannister imp and yet, aside from the way his left leg is twisted and bent underneath him, Willas Tyrell doesn’t seem all that different from his brothers when he takes her hand to welcome her to Highgarden. 

He smiles less than Ser Garlan and yet Sansa finds something inexplicably reassuring in his golden brown eyes. 

He stays with Ser Garlan in the hall though when Lady Leonette smiles again at Sansa and tells her that she has something to show her upstairs. 

Sansa is not disappointed as Lady Leonette unveils her wedding dress. It is a pale grey silk creation, with beautiful ivory buttons down the bodice that look smooth to the touch. It is as beautiful a gown as Margaery had promised it would be and Sansa’s anxious excitement only grows as Lady Leonette and her handmaidens first help her bathe and then brush out her hair until it’s silky and shines like golden fire. 

There are nervous butterflies in her stomach however by the time that she steps into her wedding gown and her hands shake as she tries to do up the fiddly buttons. 

She turns to Lady Leonette anxiously. “What if Ser Loras doesn’t like me?”

She remembers asking the same thing of her mother before being given to Joffrey and whilst Lady Leonette is not as reassuring as her mother had been, she does smile shyly at Sansa and tell her that she couldn’t look more beautiful. 

Sansa is indeed beyond pleased when the handmaidens lead her to the mirror and she sees her reflection for the first time. The handmaidens have arranged her hair so that it cascades down her back in soft waves, white flowers woven into it that remind her of the elaborate cloak of forget-me-nots that Ser Loras wore at the tourney for father. The dress too looks even more beautiful on that it had when hung up and Sansa turns slightly to admire it, smiling as the handmaidens smooth it down at the back.

It is a shame perhaps then that so few people will be present to see her in it and there would have been a time she thinks, perhaps not so long ago, when she might have cried at the thought of such a small wedding and lamented terribly the fact that everything must be so secretive, so rushed. 

She still thinks it a bit of a pity but understands why it must be so. She must be wed before the Lannisters have time to intervene and she thinks that she would choose a small private wedding a thousand times over before she ran the risk of being returned to King’s Landing and the Queen Regent. 

All the same, she wishes her family could have been here to soothe her nerves and as Lady Leonette leads her to the sept, she longs for her mother and for Robb, for missing Arya. She longs for the dead too, for her father and his steady words and for poor crippled Bran and young Rickon. She even longs for Jon and thinks that she would never call him bastard again if only he could be here now to hold her hand. 

It is not so however and she takes a deep breath as she steps into the sept. Her family cannot be here with her now, most are long gone from this world and the ones that do still live are a thousand leagues away, fighting a war in the Westerlands. 

For the time being she is on her own; she will have to build a new family here in Highgarden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely feedback so far everyone :)


	3. Willas

The girl is a vision as she steps into the sept and Willas wonders for the second time that day if she is not the most beautiful creature he’s ever laid eyes on. It’s a shame he muses, for her beauty will be quite wasted on his brother.

She is little more than a child Willas thinks, and yet she has the body of a woman, slim and delicate but with soft curves that the silken fabric of her gown does little to disguise. The thin white scars that crisscross her shoulders and back cannot be disguised either, and despite the obvious attempt that Leonette has made to hide them beneath her fiery locks, they are quite visible, barely healed and angry against her alabaster skin, relics Willas suspects, of the time that the girl was Joffrey’s to play with. 

Scars and all though, she is a match in beauty for Loras even and Willas can’t help but think that they will make a pretty couple if nothing else. Loras will like that he imagines. He is sure that his youngest brother will appreciate how striking a pair they make even if he is unable to fully appreciate the girl’s beauty himself. 

He shuffles up to her as fast as he can, trying not to wince as the pain shoots through his leg. As the heir to Highgarden it is him who his father has asked to walk her up the aisle to where Loras waits. Garlan would have done it in his stead had he asked, but it sets the tone nicely Willas thinks, for a cripple to walk this beautiful girl up the aisle where she will give herself away into what most of those present know will be a loveless marriage. 

The girl takes his arm shyly when he offers it and Willas is grateful that her eyes don’t flick down to his twisted leg and that her smile is sweet and genuine in spite of the painfully slow pace at which he is forcing her to walk towards his awaiting brother. 

She’s too elated to notice how awkward their procession is perhaps and indeed of all the many girls Willas has seen gaze longingly at his brother, this one is perhaps the most painful to witness. There’s undisguised delight on her face as they near the altar and it gnaws away at Willas’ conscience. 

He wants to pull the poor girl aside and warn her that Loras will never love her, will never be able to love her, but he remains silent. If Loras had been anyone but his brother he might have been unable to restrain himself but for now he holds his peace. 

As it happens, Loras' situation is pitiable as it is without Willas shaming him in such a manner, and whilst their marriage may well be a lie, Willas knows that Loras will not be a bad husband to Sansa Stark. He may well be distant with her, but he will never take a hand to her, or come crawling into her bed in the small hours, reeking of drink and trying to force his pleasure upon her. He may not be the true knight this pretty young creature obviously believes him to be, but he will protect her as best he can. Perhaps it will be enough.

Loras looks composed as ever, but whilst Loras would never admit to it, Willas knows that underneath his stiff composure he is most likely just as anxious, if not more anxious than the poor girl beside him. He takes her hand though when they reach him, pausing to give Willas time to shuffle awkwardly into the front row before he leads her up the steps to where the septon waits. 

He repeats the words convincingly enough Willas thinks, and even manages a haughty smile as the septon binds this unlikely pair together, passing the white strip of cloth about both of their hands and declaring them one. 

If Willas looks closely though, he can see the cracks beginning to show in his brother’s mask. Loras is holding himself awkwardly, all his usual poise and elegance having almost completely deserted him as he wraps the green and gold cloak around Sansa Stark’s shoulders. There is more than a trace of sadness in his brother’s eyes today and Willas can only be glad that Renly Baratheon is not here to witness the broken wreck his brother has become.

It's over quickly enough and the girl looks radiant as Loras escorts her to the feast, her fiery hair cascading down her back and flying out behind her as she climbs the steps at Loras’ side, clinging to his arm as if she's in some kind of dream. 

If his brother seems disconcerted by this he doesn’t show it and Willas feels a sudden rush of admiration for him as he holds the girl’s hand as if he truly desired to. Loras is doing his best here, and yet Willas knows his best will never be enough.

This is the fourth loveless marriage his father has pushed his siblings into, but only the second Willas has been forced to watch. He can only be thankful that his father was merciful enough to allow him to stay in Highgarden during Margaery’s union to Joffrey. It was by far the worst wedding of the four he thinks and monster or not, Willas is unsure whether he would have been able to sit quietly and watch as Joffrey choked. 

Today on the other hand is a remarkably pleasant affair as far as onlookers are concerned. The guests are few and far between, but there is good food, wine and dancing for everyone to enjoy. He’s acutely reminded in fact of his sister’s first wedding, a hundred times more extravagant, but a similar situation he thinks, except that Margaery, Loras and Renly were in it together. 

The desserts are being cleared away when their father calls for the bedding, and for perhaps the first time Willas is glad for his crippled leg. He has no desire to participate in the bedding ceremony, no desire at all in fact to see the delighted nerves in the girl’s eyes, or the traces of anxiety in his brother's. Loras will never admit that he is nervous, not to him or Garlan at least, yet they both know that their youngest brother has fretted for some time over what is to come, worrying that he will not be able to perform as the girl might expect him to. 

Looking at the girl now, with her doe eyes and the naïve shy smile she wears, Willas doubts that she knows enough of such things to have any true expectations of what will follow after she is carried upstairs, but all the same, he hopes that everything will go smoothly, if only for the sake of Loras’ fragile pride. 

It is Garlan who rescues the girl from the lecherous hands of the male guests, sweeping her up in his strong arms and jesting with her to soothe her nerves.

There is no one to rescue Loras however, and Willas wishes not for the first time Margaery were here to join the fray of girls and put her hand on his shoulder. Alas their sister is in Kings Landing, and it is their cousins who harass Loras, pinching at his cheeks and pulling his clothes from his body. 

It is a merry procession in all though and Willas can hear the japing and the crude comments echoing down the hallway even long after both bride and groom have been carried out of the door, a trail of abandoned garments following in their wake. 

He sighs as the musicians strike up again, stretching out his aching leg under the table as he picks up his cup of wine and waits for Garlan to return. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. He’s only taken a few sips when the doors swing open and Garlan emerges through them, the girl’s gown draped now over his arm and her dainty shoes dangling from his hands. 

“How was she?” Willas asks, looking up from his wine to study his brother’s face. He imagines that the bedding ceremony must be a nerve-racking experience indeed for young girls such as Sansa Stark.

“Smiling.” Garlan tells him briefly, taking a seat beside him. “She blushes as prettily as anything though. She was the same colour as her hair by the time we got up the stairs.”

Willas sighs. “It’s a ridiculous tradition.”

“A fun one though, especially when the bride is such a beauty.” Garlan grins as Willas rolls his eyes despairingly at him. “But don’t tell Leonette I said that.” He adds, an amused twinkle in his eyes that makes Willas smile, for they both know that it would take more than a blushing bride to drive a wedge between Garlan and Leonette. 

“And what of Loras?” Willas asks, pouring a cup of wine for Garlan. 

“He’ll be fine.” Garlan insists “Most like, he even enjoyed that little show. He’s always been a vain little thing. I doubt he could wait to get his clothes off in front of the lords and ladies.” 

Willas smiles. “True. But that’s not the part I was worrying about.”

Garlan nods in agreement, his tone growing more serious. “He’ll pull through though. He’s tougher than he looks our youngest brother.” 

“I used to think that.” Willas says quietly. “But since he and Renly Baratheon set off for Bitterbridge together and only one of them came back, I’ve not been so sure.”

Garlan smiles sadly. “Has he spoken to you about that yet?” 

“About Renly?” Willas shakes his head. “Not a word. Has he to you?” 

“As silent as the grave.” Garlan sighs. “But I wouldn’t expect him to. What concerns me more is that Margaery tells me he has no desire to speak of it with her either. Apparently he changes the subject whenever she tries to bring it up.”

“He’ll talk when he’s ready to.” Willas says, with a lot more confidence than he feels. It worries him that his youngest brother has not confided in their sister. The pair have always been inseparable, virtually joined at the hip since they were children. It’s a poor decision on his father’s part he thinks, to insist that Loras return to Highgarden whilst Margaery remains in Kings Landing.

Garlan pours another drink. “I just wish he’d smile again is all.”

“Me too” Willas sighs. “But all we can do is give him time.”

They speak little after that, Garlan sipping his wine silently whilst Willas finds himself staring absent-mindedly up at the ceiling. Garlan may well be the one beside him but his thoughts are upstairs with his youngest brother, and the young girl who seems so fragile yet holds her head so high.


	4. Loras II

She's soft and silky under his fingers, like the very wedding gown that only moments ago has been ripped from her bare, scarred shoulders. She's all curves and soft flesh and Loras doesn't quite know quite where to touch as she lies beside him under the sheets.

He starts with her mouth. That's easy enough. Her lips part as Renly's used to, and Loras runs his hand through her hair as he kisses her. The tresses tangle easily in his fingers, the silky strands fanning out behind her on the pillow. 

She's beautiful. He cannot deny her that. There's fear in her eyes though and he doesn't know what to do about it. It’s normal he knows for young girls to be fearful this first time; Garlan and Willas warned him it would be so. He thinks perhaps then to get it over with, to not draw it out any longer than he has to, and yet that fear in her eyes only increases when he reaches out to touch the soft curve of her breasts. She's a child really Loras thinks as she draws back from him, a child with the budding body of a woman. 

He takes a deep breath as he reaches again to touch her breasts, wondering if he himself ever seemed this young to Renly. Sansa Stark may appear as a child to him, but really she is no younger than he was when Renly first took him into his bed in such a way. The gap in age is no different either and yet the four years that seemed paltry between him and Renly seems somehow like a chasm between him and his young bride. 

He bites back a sigh, moving his hands down to in between her legs. He doesn’t know his way over a woman's body and thus his fingers are clumsy as he parts her legs and slips a finger in between her soft folds. He's trying to be gentle, more so than he ever has been before, and yet she is tense underneath him, nervousness evident in her wide eyes and her shy smile. 

He turns away from her slightly then, slipping his hand down to ready himself instead. He wonders briefly whether Sansa wants to touch. She makes no move to do so however and Loras thinks it is perhaps for the best. He imagines her gentle touch and innocent dainty hands would do little for him. 

He has tried to wean himself off fantasising about Renly when he touches himself like this, has tried to slowly reduce his reliance on whispering Renly’s name in the dark when he takes such pleasures alone, and yet he finds he needs such comforts tonight. Even with Sansa Stark in plain view beside him, it’s easier than it ought to be to imagine that his own hand is Renly’s and he wonders miserably whether he’s undoing all the little progress that he’s made in trying to accustom himself to life without Renly as he repeats his name desperately in his head, chanting it over and over as if it might make the memory come alive. 

He's as aroused as seems likely soon enough and he moves his hand back to her parted legs. She's not as wet as he'd been anticipating, but then again he has no idea quite how wet she ought to be.

He wants to put her on her front, to roll her over and shut his eyes and imagine she's Renly, but he supposes that would be cruel, cowardly even. Instead he parts her legs further, moving to lie in between them and reaching up to knot his hands in her hair.

Her eyes grow wide and frightened as she feels him hard against her leg and he grits his teeth grimly. He'd aimed to make her relax, to make her comfortable with him and yet she's nervous and tense still underneath him, wound tightly like a coiled spring. He bites back a sigh. He’s failed in what he set out to do and failure is not something he's well acquainted with. 

He doesn't know whether to roll off her and try again, to try to soothe the nerves and take the fear out of her eyes. He doesn't think he can sustain his own already flagging arousal much longer though and so he leans down to kiss her instead, a touch of lips that is brief, chaste even. 

“Is this what you want Lady Sansa?” he breathes softly against her cheek. 

“Yes” she whispers back. “It's all I ever wanted.”

There's truth in her eyes now as well as fear and Loras can't help but cringe away from her slightly. She deserves better than this perhaps, and yet he thinks he does too. All the same though, his father expects him to consummate this union and so he grits his teeth and pushes into her without further ceremony. 

It's easier than he expects. Even her young unopened body proves less of a challenge than he's used to and the sensation is not unpleasant. She cries out though, whether from pain or pleasure Loras isn't sure. Probably pain he thinks grimly as he rocks up into her and feels shudders course through her body beneath him. She's warm and tight around him though and he finds that if he shuts his eyes he can lean down and kiss her neck and think of Renly.

His movements jar against her though and still she lies rather stiffly underneath him as he tries to kiss the tension out of her shoulders. He’s sorely tempted to reach over for the vial of oil that he knows lies still under his bedside, unused for over a year now and most likely collecting dust under his bed. It would make it less painful for her he thinks, make everything smoother, easier for both of them.

It would be a mark of his failure to arouse her however and besides he doesn't know whether such things are even done with women. As such, she will have to suffer through the pain. It will be over soon enough he thinks, and he has been led to believe that it is only this first time that should hurt so with women, a small mercy for them both. 

It takes him a long time to finish though and by the end he is panting with exhaustion rather than arousal, his eyes screwed shut and his legs aching from the effort. He doesn't cry out when his seed spills and neither does she. It is oddly quiet in fact, a tense silence echoing around the room and pressing down heavily on him. 

She sighs softly though when he slips out of her, and she lets him put his arms around her and draw her into the crook of his neck. Perhaps it’s only because he’s been lonely for so long but he finds there’s some comfort in her awkward embrace and whilst the silky skin and soft long hair is foreign to him, the warmth and weight against him is not. They’re quite familiar he thinks, familiar enough in fact to bring back memories he has long tried to forget and yet still can’t help but cling to. 

She’s entirely out of place next to him he thinks but the bed is somehow less empty with her there, less cold, less overwhelmingly lonely. The feel of bare skin against his own after so long is reassuring too and he even finds himself tugging her closer as if her very presence might help keep the shadows at bay.

He doesn't sleep that night, and is not sure she does either. He's far away, back inside the walls of Storm's End with the arms of someone else entirely around him.


	5. Sansa II

She wonders whether she ought to have enjoyed it more. She knows little of such relations between men and women, only what she’s gathered from hushed whispers not meant for her ears, and yet she finds it all rather underwhelming. She remembers the hunger in the eyes of the men who tried to rape her, the hunger in those of the hound that night when the Blackwater burned as he took her in his arms and kissed her.

There was no such hunger in Ser Loras' eyes and she wonders sadly if there's something wrong with her, whether her body is ill equipped to give Ser Loras the pleasure he needs.

He doesn't speak to her afterwards, but he does pull her to him and let her rest her head against his shoulder. His grip is strong and she can feel the muscles taught under the skin. She sighs softly, wondering if he would mind if she were to touch him, to run her hands along his chest like she’s always dreamed of.

She’s too shy though and she contents herself with lying quietly beside him, aching and sore and wishing she were at home. It’s quite easy to pretend though and she can’t help but indulge herself with fantasies. Before long, Ser Loras' arms are her summer furs wrapped around her and his weight is Lady against her.

Ser Loras is gone by time she wakes and she finds herself alone in his rooms, the sunlight streaming in through the open window. Several handmaidens are there to aid her though and one helps her bathe whilst the others strip the sheets, laughing sweetly when they see her maiden’s stain.

Sansa blushes furiously and rises from the tub to dress, feeling suddenly very over-exposed. She chooses a dress hurriedly, picking out a dark green garment that she hopes Ser Loras will like.

She feels in better spirits once she is dressed and smiles as she descends the stairs to breakfast. Last night had not been what she imagined it would be, but today is a new day she thinks, perhaps the passion she seeks between her and Ser Loras will grow in time.

It doesn’t.

Ser Loras is very cordial and he often takes his pleasure with her, but Sansa wonders whether she truly satisfies him. He seems so far away somehow, so intent on keeping his eyes closed, that she wonders whether she’s doing something wrong in her inexperience.

It takes her a fortnight to pluck up the courage to ask her handmaidens if she might be at fault, yet they only smile and tell her that some men have less of an appetite for such pleasures than others.

She thinks then that she might write to Margaery to ask her advice and seeking some privacy, takes her quill and parchment outside, wandering about the rose garden until she finds a bench almost entirely hidden in amongst the flowers.

She breathes in their sweet scent as she writes, trying to keep her hand neat as she leans the parchment against her knees. She has just finished and is trying to decide whether to sign off Sansa or Lady Sansa when she hears slow, muffled footsteps.

Curious, she peers out from behind the roses and is surprised when her eyes meet those of Ser Loras’ brother.

He stops when he sees her, leaning heavily on his cane and holding a large bag of what looks like apples in his free hand.

“Lady Sansa.” He greets. “I was just on my way to the stables. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.”

“Not at all.” She says, signing Sansa with a flourish. “I had just finished writing to your sister.”

“Your sister too now.” He says quietly.

She smiles and nods. “My sister too” she repeats hesitantly.

There’s a surprisingly comfortable silence few moments and then he smiles. “I’ve just had a filly born last night. Would you like to come and see her?”

She contemplates the question for a moment before agreeing. She has never been particularly fond of riding and yet she imagines a new born foal might be sweet. More than anything though, she is desperate for something, _anything_ really, to fill the days with.

The stables are not far and she finds Willas is easy to talk to, asking her about Winterfell and her siblings. He listens so genuinely that she finds herself forgetting to admit that her family and brother are traitors as she used to have to in King’s Landing. Instead she tells him of Robb’s fondness for snowball fights, about Arya and her poor needlework and poor Bran who could never keep his feet on the ground. She even tells him about Jon and finds that she is somehow less embarrassed now of having a bastard half-brother.

He smiles when she opens the stable door for him and takes a seat on an upturned bale of hay before patting an old wicker chair beside him. She suspects that the chair is there for him and contemplates insisting that they swap. She wonders though whether that would humiliate him and so keeps silent.

Even she can see that the mare is beautiful, an elegant bay with a splash of white across her forehead and four white socks to match. She approaches when they sit down and nuzzles Willas expectantly. Sansa realises then what the apples are for and laughs as he produces one from the bag and lets her take it out of his hand.

It’s only then that she sees the foal, a deep bay like its mother and teetering on legs that look far too long. It wobbles over after its mother and Sansa has an urge to reach out and stroke it.

Willas smiles then and reaches out to take her hand, putting an apple in her palm and closing her fingers around it.

“Hold it out” He says.

She does and the mare wanders over to her hopefully, the filly wobbling on her spindly legs right behind her. Willas gives the mare a small push with one of his hands.

“It’s not for you.” He laughs softly.

Sansa smiles as the foal eats out of her hand. She was never fond of riding in Winterfell, it was always Arya who was gallivanting around on horses. But this filly is so sweet, so gentle and it eats neatly out of her hand. She glances up at Willas and when he nods, reaches out to lay a hand on the little horse’s neck.

“Does she have a name?” She laughs as the filly nuzzles her, seemingly sure that she’s got more apples hidden in her bodice.

“Not yet.” Willas tells her. “You can give her one if you like. Would that please you lady Sansa?”

She smiles and nods, thinking. The young horse is graceful. She needs a fitting name.“Who does she belong to?” She asks, thinking that might give her some inspiration.

Willas laughs and this time it seems somehow sad. “The mare was a wedding gift to Margaery’s first husband, one that I raised.” He sighs. “No-one seems to want her now, so I’ve taken her back as a breeding mare. I’ve yet to decide who to give the foal to.” He pauses. “Would you like her Lady Sansa?”

She falters. “I’m not a very good rider” she admits. “I always used to travel in the wheelhouse. And I wouldn’t know what to do with a foal.”

Willas smiles. “I could show you if you cared to learn.”

Her immediate thought is that proper ladies don’t ride and yet she remembers Margaery and her companions riding out together in Kings Landing with such gaiety. She thinks perhaps at the very least it might please Ser Loras if she takes an interest in something he obviously enjoys.

“That would be lovely.” she says hesitantly. “If you’re sure you don’t mind helping me?”

“It would be a pleasure.” He pulls himself off the chair and to his feet, limping towards the door where his stick leans. Both animals follow him and Sansa finds herself almost envious. Ser Loras’ brother evidently has a way with these beautiful creatures.


	6. Willas II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay! Been abroad for a while but back now and should get back to posting this at least weakly :) Hope you enjoy!

Lady Sansa takes more of an interest in the young filly than Willas has expected her to, coming each afternoon with him to the stables with a smile on her face and an apple in hand. He finds her a kind, thoughtful girl and whilst she never mentions his crippled leg, she seems to do her best to put him at ease, opening the stable door for him and always leaving the wicker chair for him to sit on, instead settling herself down on the upturned bale of hay even though she's a lady and she must abhor the way the hay must scratch her through her dress.

She knows very little about horses, Willas soon realises, and yet she seems eager to listen to anything he has to say, about horses or otherwise, and Willas soon discovers that it's the flowers she especially likes to be told about, where they grow and what their names are and which one he likes best. And so he tells her a little about each of the blooms that grow on the path between the castle and the stables and she in turn tells him about a blue winter rose that grows only in Winterfell. She seems far away when she speaks of her home and Willas wonders if she's dwelling on her father and dead siblings, the sister that she confesses sadly to Willas one afternoon that she always felt ashamed of, and the two younger brothers, one crippled and one still little more than a toddling child that he knows to be dead at the hands of the Ironborn.

It's three days before she gives the young horse a name and when she does, it surprises Willas greatly for she insists on calling the filly after her sister. As much as he loves horses, it's a dubious honour Willas initially thinks and yet Sansa seems set on it, confessing to Willas that whilst she had been saving the name for her first-born daughter, on reflection she thinks perhaps that her sister would prefer to have a horse named after her than a bawling baby.

She laughs at him when Willas repeats the name, claiming that with his southron accent he's making it into three syllables when it's only in fact two. Willas laughs and tries again, but once more she screws up her face and laughs. "It's Arya" She tells him "not Aria."

He can't seem to grasp it and soon she gives up trying to correct him, indeed even beginning to copy the way he says it as she calls the young horse to her for it's daily apple, dropping the first syllable and calling her Ria which for a horse rolls off the tongue better anyway Willas thinks.

She laughs often with him and yet sometimes, when she's lost in her own thoughts and doesn't seem to notice Willas watching her quietly from his old wicker chair in the corner, she seems troubled, and from the way she and his brother seem at dinner, always with little to say to each other and with an awkwardness that even the ever cheerful Garlan can't seem to disperse, he can guess why. He admires her loyalty to him though. She never breathes a word that she is sorely disappointed in her marriage and had Loras not been his brother and had Margaery not told him in her letters that both Sansa and Loras had written to her to say they were terribly unhappy (although Lady Sansa apparently phrased this rather more delicately he was told) Willas would have never known that Sansa was not as happy with Loras as Leonette was with Garlan.

She and his brother don't seem to spend much time together, despite the fact they still share chambers, a fact he wonders if Lady Sansa finds odd. This, he knows, has been insisted upon by his father, for two reasons: the first because their father seems to feel it will encourage Loras to do his duty, for lack of being able to escape the marital bed, and the second because, for all that everyone admits Sansa Stark is a lovely sweet girl, the fact remains that whilst the Tyrells lie with lions, she is the daughter of the enemy and as such father thinks it better that Loras _keep an eye on her_.

It's a fortnight before Loras himself admits to Willas that he doesn't think Sansa is happy, and even then it's grudgingly so as they stand solemnly in the yard watching Garlan train, Willas leaning heavily on his stick.

“I don't know what to do.” he confesses to Willas reluctantly. “What to say to her, or how to make her happy.” He pushes a stone around with his foot. “She thinks I don't like her. That I don't desire her, or love her.”

_Well you don't_ Willas thinks silently in his head, thinking it a sad pity for it seems all lady Sansa truly wants is to be loved. Out loud though, he tries to be optimistic. “You don't know that she thinks that.” he soothes.

Loras shrugs miserably. “I do. Margaery implied as much in her last letter.” He yawns and he looks so very tired, which is no wonder for from what Margaery tells him, Loras' attempts to get an heir on Sansa are often woefully unsuccessfully and painstakingly lengthy.

Willas doesn't know what to say to that, and so he says nothing and they return to watching Garlan in silence.

Eventually Loras speaks again. “Do you think I should tell her?” he asks, not quite meeting Willas' eye and looking faintly embarrassed.

Willas doesn't need to ask what Loras is contemplating telling Sansa and he can't help but sigh. It's a question he doesn't know the answer to and a matter he thinks it's best he doesn't intervene in. “I don't know.” he says truthfully.

Loras shrugs. “She'd cry most like. Or laugh.” He scowls and Willas know his youngest brother can't bear the thought of people laughing at him.

Willas doesn't really know enough of lady Sansa yet to know truly whether she would laugh. But he thinks not. There is no cruelty in those blue eyes of hers, and he thinks that she wouldn't laugh at his youngest brother even if she were incapable of understanding. He suspects she'd cry though, and he would hardly blame her. He has had no personal role in the deceit and yet he feels somehow like he too should feel guilty for handing her over to someone never capable of loving her.

“Life will go on as usual” Willas tells Loras instead, his heart heavy. “She'll have our cousins and once your seed quickens I'll dare say she'll be as happy as many a wife in the realm who has beautiful children to dote on.”

Loras smiles wistfully, running a hand through his hair wearily. “I never thought I'd have children” he admits. “I would have been happy being an uncle I think, to Margaery's babes and Garlan's and yours.”

Willas smiles back and doesn't point out that he should probably have ended the list at Margaery and Garlan, for who, he wonders, would desire to marry a cripple even if he is the heir to Highgarden?

It's hard to imagine his youngest brother as a father though. He's seven and ten and yet he seems to Willas as much a child as his bride, petulant and insolent and still with so much to learn himself. He imagines he'd have made a good uncle and he pauses to think of what might have been, Margaery with a bundle of black haired babes in her arms, all with her curls and Renly's blue eyes. Loras would have done well there he thinks, with Margaery on one side and Renly to the other.

That future is long gone though and he thinks both Loras and lady Sansa will no doubt suffer for it.

Loras evidently decides not to tell Sansa for she turns up tomorrow afternoon as usual, with a smile on her face that he thinks wouldn't be present if her husband had confessed such a thing the night before. She wears her hair in a long plait today instead of piled up high in the style of the southern courts. Willas thinks it suits her better like this and as she leans over to let the filly take the apple out of her hand, he can't help but notice how shapely she is, soft curves almost hidden as they are beneath the fold of her dress.

It's perhaps inappropriate to look at his brother's wife in this way, but he supposes it's inevitable, for even a fool would be able to see that lady Sansa is uncommonly beautiful with her ivory skin and hair that's been kissed by fire. She looks particularly beautiful today, he thinks, and is hard pushed to bring himself to concentrate when she asks him that afternoon about a particularly exquisite white blossom that grows just beyond the stable door.

It's not her beauty that astounds him though, but her nature, her disposition. She has suffered too much he thinks, for no-one deserves to watch their father lose his head nor be beaten in front of court, let alone a young lady who's still half a child. And yet despite this, her smile is still shy and sweet and she carries herself with a grace any lady would be proud of.

She's a far cry, he thinks, from Loras who unlike lady Sansa, seems determined to be bitter at the world and everyone in it.


	7. Loras III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry there's been such a long gap in updates. This should be the last time that happens and updates shouldn't be any less than one a week :)

Lady Sansa has seemed happier these last few weeks, a thought which makes Loras feel more hopeful than he has done for a long time. There is certainly a light in her eyes that wasn't there before and more often than not when Loras glances over at her she will be smiling or laughing even, a cheerful sound which sometimes even manages to make Loras himself smile a little.

He has to admit she is a lovely girl and he has hope now that once an heir has been born that their marriage will be a content one if not a blissfully happy one. He thinks she will be a good mother to his children at the very least and he can imagine her now with a babe in her arms, a beautiful babe with auburn curls and large golden eyes.

He's not sure what has brought about this change in her and yet he likes to think that it's his own efforts that have made the difference. He has been doing his best to follow the advice Margaery has given him and on occasions these past few weeks he and Sansa have managed to spend time alone in each other's company without the awkward silences that used to be there. Or perhaps, and this probably had more to do with it, he has to admit, her lifted spirits are because she feels more at ease in Highgarden than she did before, like she is one of the family and not a captive. She's even taken one of Willas' horses for her own Loras is told, which pleases him, for it means they at least have something to talk about.

He hasn't been to see it yet though, despite her constant asking him to, and he doesn't think he will until the filly has left her mother. Not yet does he have any desire to see the horse which had been Renly's, which he'd ridden back to Bitterbridge from Storm's End. He's surprised though that Sansa has shown so much interest. Admittedly, he knows that Willas does most of the work whilst Sansa does little more than feed the filly apples and lead her around on a pretty embroidered rope, she still never struck him as the sort of girl who would enjoy that. And yet each morning without fail, she leaves their chambers with the brightest smile on her face and each afternoon she returns equally as happy, usually with something or another that Willas has told her or shown her that she can't wait to tell him about too.

They return to their chambers quite late that night, for Sansa has seemed to spend the entire evening talking to Willas about something or another. She undresses for bed as soon as they're back though and instead of her usual plain night clothes, Loras sees that she has put on a shift of myrish lace that shows her shoulders and sits low upon her bosom. It's a garment Loras knows is worn specifically with him in mind, an idea of Sansa's handmaidens that Margaery has informed him of in her last letter. He supposes it's a pretty enough garment and yet it does no more to arouse him than the long modest nightdress she usually wears.

It gives him warning though of her intentions and he undresses himself slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. She's desperate for a child he knows, and part of him is too, just so that his father will stop badgering him over it and because he thinks she'll be happier. Tonight though, he's not sure he has not the energy for such things.

She turns over expectantly when he slides in beside her though and so he closes the gap between them, running his hands down her sides, tracing the dip of her waist until his hands come to rest at her hips, delicate myrish lace under his fingers. She seems to have realised that he prefers it with her facing away from him and he wonders whether she finds that humiliating at all. He thinks he would have done had he been in Sansa's place and yet he imagines that compared to the humiliations she's suffered at Joffrey's hands, this is something she has been able to accept with ease. 

She hasn't learnt yet though that her touch does little for him. And so as usual, she reaches out and takes him in hand. She quite evidently means well, trying to be helpful or alluring as no doubt one of the handmaidens has probably told her she should be, and yet Loras thinks it would be easier for both of them if she just let him get on with it himself.

He's still soft when she touches him and Loras fears it's going to be another one of those nights where humiliatingly he's going to remain so. It's all in his mind, he thinks, for he knows he's perfectly capable and yet since the first time it happened and that humiliating experience of having to mutter to lady Sansa that he might not be able to do his duty that night, he's been so anxious of it happening again that he's nervous before she even touches him. And his anxiety, he knows, is his own worst enemy.

Margaery is the only one he has dared to confess his impotence to, and she was soothing, insisting it was all in his head and that he shouldn't dwell on it so much.

And most of the time he manages to do what he needs to do. Tonight though, it seems not to be, and whether it's because he drunk more wine at dinner than usual or just because it's one of those days, his arousal won't come, regardless of how persistent lady Sansa is with those soft hands of hers.

He can see the hurt in lady Sansa's eyes when he pries her hands off him and knows that he ought to say something, or do something to make her realise it's not her fault. If it's anyone's fault really it's his fathers for insisting they share chambers rather than letting Loras have more say over when he beds her. As it is though he can't force himself to meet her eye and she looks a little lost, glancing down at his limp cock as if it's her fault. Her gaze isn't mocking and neither is it accusing and yet Loras finds himself suddenly furiously embarrassed.

He pulls on his breeches angrily without even bothering with his small-clothes and stalks out of the room, tugging his shirt back over his head as he goes. He supposes that he's fleeing really rather than swallowing his pride and making things right, and yet it irritates him to think of it like that.

He's only gone a few yards when he realises he has nowhere to go. Garlan will be with Leonette, and he doesn't think he can face Willas and his logic right now. His eldest brother, he knows, will kindly suggest that he return to Sansa and apologise, explain even perhaps, and yet apologies have never come easily to Loras.

He dithers slightly before pushing open the door to his sister's old chambers, empty now since she left Highgarden with he and Renly. It feels strange to be in here without her and yet everything is so reassuringly familiar, everything exactly as she left it. There's even a vial of the perfumes she dabs on her wrists on her bedside table which Loras picks up fondly. He pours a little on his handkerchief and breathes it in deeply. It smells like she does and he wishes terribly that she were here now. She'd have soothed him, he knows, mended the cracks in his broken pride with little more than a few words. And she'd have gone to Sansa too afterwards, apologising so well on his behalf that by the morning everything would be forgotten.

His sister isn't here though and to make things worse he can see that there's still a few things of Renly's scattered about her room, vestiges of a time Loras is still doing his best to forget. A cloak of his has been flung carelessly over the chair, the fabric still a deep charcoal and the velvet still pliant and soft despite the fact that its owner is no longer here to wear it. A brooch too lies on Margaery's dressing table, in the shape of a Baratheon stag, set in gold and emeralds.

He gathers them up with a heavy heart, trying not to let his fingers linger on the jewels of the brooch or on the soft fabric of the cloak for longer than necessary. Instead, he folds the cloak up neatly and puts it in away in a drawer, lying the brooch on top before he shuts them both away like he's done with all the things he has left of Renly.

When Renly had first left him, he'd been unable to resist the temptation of clinging to his old things and he'd spent most nights with his arms around one garment or another of Renly's. It had been all too easy to push his face into them and pretend that Renly was underneath them instead of the cold damp earth Loras had buried him under. He thinks that pretending wouldn't be hard even now and that it would probably soothe him tonight even if it did mean that waking tomorrow would be all the more painful.

He resists though and climbs into bed without retrieving the cloak from where he's stashed it. He could cope, he knows, with waking alone without Renly and yet with his scent filling his senses, and yet it's exactly that which stops him. For he knows that slowly, everything of Renly's he spends too much time holding will inevitable lose that scent which is so reassuring, so distinctly reminiscent of Renly himself. And whilst right now, he's doing his best to forget Renly even existed, he can't help but dread having nothing left of him.

He sleeps on the side of the bed Margaery never favoured and it reminds him of happier times, when he'd been no more than a child and when the biggest care he'd had was that both Garlan and Willas could best him with ease in the training yard. Renly hadn't existed in his world yet and instead of collapsing onto Renly's bed in a tangle of limbs and kisses, he'd crawled into Margaery's, drawing the covers up about their knees as Willas had sat and told them stories. They'd taken it in turns, him and Margaery, to choose what Willas would tell them about, and sometimes Garlan would join too, grinning and every now and then embellishing Willas' tales with grandiose claims that were clearly falsehoods and yet made Margaery and Loras sit up in excitement.

These are safer memories than ones of Renly and so Loras clings to them, losing himself in them until he can forget his humiliation and fall asleep.


	8. Willas III

His father insists on ranting for hours that evening, pacing up and down the now empty dining chambers as he tells Willas that the siege of Storm's End is taking too long, that Tarly and his armies might be sat there for years at this rate. Willas has to agree. The men Stannis has left in the ancient castle seem as unbending as Stannis himself is. And with no way of knowing how well provided for Stannis left them, it could well be long before Tarly and his men march west again or the Redwyne fleet sails home.

His father is impatient though and Willas doesn't think it will be long before he loses patience all together and rides out himself, as if somehow his presence outside the walls of Storm's End will be able to will Stannis' men to give up the castle faster.

He, on the other hand, listens quite patiently as his father blusters on, his face getting redder and redder until he eventually runs out of steam, collapsing into his chair and giving Willas leave to go to bed.

His leg is particularly sore this evening and he's just limping back to his chambers when he hears the muffled sobs coming from behind the door of Loras' chambers. He can't help stopping and listening, wondering whether it is Loras or Sansa who is in such distress this evening. If it's Loras, Willas knows that he'd do better to leave him to it. His brother is proud and headstrong and Willas has never seen Loras cry, at least not since Loras was a child, and he doesn't think now that Loras would appreciate being seen in such a state.

He's almost sure it's Sansa though and that makes him hesitate. He doubts she would cry in front of her husband and so he suspects she's alone.

The door is already ajar and so gingerly, he peeks through. It is indeed Sansa and she's lying on her and Loras' bed, curled up with her face buried in the pillows. She's wearing only a thin slip and Willas is ashamed to admit that something other than pity begins to take hold in him. Her hair is loose and cascading down over her bare shoulders, the thin lacy straps of her lace just visible. It's a beautiful garment she's wearing, a lace creation that clings to her curves and makes Willas' pulse race a little.

She's beautiful and the sound of her tears makes his heart ache a little.

It takes him only a quick glance round to work out the gist of what has happened. Loras' absence speaks volumes as do the discarded clothes lain over the chair. He vaguely wonders where Loras has gone and wonders too whether he should go and find him. He imagines though that had Loras wanted his company, he would have sought it out.

That decided, he steps back from the door and knocks. He expects that Sansa will not answer and yet he supposes he should at least try to offer some comfort to the poor girl.

He is surprised though when Sansa does come to the door, no longer in her shift, but with a dark green robe wrapped round her. She's wiped away her tears and yet she cannot hide the fact that she's been crying. Her cheeks are still stained with her tears and her eyes are red and sore. There's a hopeful look about her though and Willas wonders whether she imagines him to be Loras, come to apologise.

She does seem surprised to see him there and yet in spite of clutching at the edges of her robe self-consciously, she seems almost a little relieved. He resists the urge to sigh. He supposes that the prospect of having to deal with Loras' anger must indeed be rather nerve-racking for such a young girl. His youngest brother is very quick to anger and yet painfully slow to calm.

“Are you alright Sansa?” He asks gently.

She nods thickly and then a sob escapes and she begins to shake her head.

She's in his arms before Willas can even reply, her head pressed into his chest as Willas struggles to keep his balance. There's nothing overtly suggestive in her movements, and yet Willas can't help imagining how easy it would be to cup her chin and tip her face back, kissing her tears away. Instead though, he strokes her hair, softly, like he might have done with Margaery. Sansa is more fragile than his sister has ever been though and he wonders whether this small offering of comfort will be enough. He can only remember his sister truly upset once, and that was when Loras left for Storm's End. It had been easy to soothe her then, Loras would write, would visit, would return home as a knight and just as fond of her. He feels lost though when he stares down at Sansa, her face still pressed into his neck; he doesn't know what to say to her, whether indeed there is anything he _can_ say that will truly make her feel better.

“Let's sit shall we.” He suggests after her sobs have died down, reluctantly taking his hand out of her hair. "Tell me about it if you like."

She nods and her cheeks now pink, abandons his shoulder to sit at her dressing table. She wipes her tears with her handkerchief and seems to be doing her best to compose herself.

Willas sits on a chair, one that's a safe distance from her, where he can't reach out and touch a lock of her hair if the fancy takes him.

He doesn't push her and yet Sansa seems determined to voice her troubles. He's mildly curious as to how much she's going to tell him. It's painstakingly obvious that Loras has failed to bed her tonight and yet to admit that to him would be to embarrass her husband; something he thinks Sansa will be unwilling to do. She has too much of a gentle nature for that.

“I don't think Ser Loras likes me very much.” She ventures in a quiet voice and as Willas expects, she doesn't enlighten him to Loras' shortcomings.

Willas sighs. He and Margaery have debated about telling her why Loras shows no interest for weeks now. The general consensus was to let Loras do it in his own time and yet deep down he thinks that they all know that Loras is too proud to do it. He will never admit something that would shatter his wife's opinion of him so. Sansa, though, cannot be kept in the dark forever, and Willas wonders whether it is best that he simply gets it over with, tells her what Loras should have told her weeks ago. As it it, he doesn't think he can bring himself to lie to her, soothe her and tell her that everything is alright when clearly it's not.

He takes a deep breath. “It's not you.” He eventually says softly, continuing when she cocks her head in confusion. “Loras has always been disinterested in taking a wife.”

She looks at him and Willas doesn't think she understands. He supposes that is to be expected. She's barely more than a child and while men who bed with men are jested about in court, he doesn't imagine such things are often discussed in front of young ladies. He doubts too that it will have occurred to her that the gallant Ser Loras she was evidently so excited to wed could possibly be one of those shamed men.

He tries again. “Loras isn't overly fond of women.” 

She frowns then, a small puzzled look coming onto her face. It takes a few moments before realisation dawns on her face and her eyes widen as colour rushes to her cheeks. He's not sure of the reason for her embarrassment, whether she's ashamed to be married to such a man or whether she's merely ashamed of her naivety. He imagines that she doesn't know what to think.

The tears are back. “So, so he'll never want..” Her voice trails off and yet Willas imagines he can guess what she's referring to.

Willas shrugs sadly. He feels more guilty than he's ever done. Guilty for humiliating Loras and guilty for what his family has done to this poor girl, for the lies that were told to her and for the false promise that Loras as a husband was for her. He has told none of the lies himself and yet he wonders if those who stand by and do nothing are any better in truth than the wrongdoers.

“Does he have... someone else then?” She whispers, not seeming able to bring herself to ask if it's a man Loras sees instead of her. There's hurt on her face and again it clutches at Willas' heart strings.

He shakes his head though. “No,” He breathes. The fact that Renly is no longer here is never mentioned in front of Loras and yet whilst he has never spoken to Loras about taking another lover, he thinks it'll be a while yet before the possibility even occurs to Loras.

She's silent for a good few moments and then she nods weakly, sweeping her hair off her face and rubbing at her eyes again. He wonders whether this revelation soothes her, whether the fact that Loras is faithful despite his preferences does anything to make her situation easier. He suspects not.

“Where did Loras go tonight?” Willas asks.

“I don't know” she whispers, a helpless expression creeping onto her face.

Willas sighs. “Well let's get you back to bed then. Loras will no doubt have calmed down by the morning.” He smiles as she dutifully climbs into her bed, averting his his eyes as she slips her robe off; it's improper for him to be in her bedchamber at this time, let alone while she's dressed for bed so. “My brother's not the best with apologies. I shouldn't expect too much.”

She nods and as she pulls the covers up over her shoulders, Willas can't help but notice how alone she looks in that huge bed, deserted by her husband. She's lonely, he thinks, sighing. Loras and her make a right pair it seems.

“Can I do anything for you?” He asks softly, knowing the words are what is expected of him but also that they are meaningless, polite phrases that offer none of the comfort they promise.

“Not unless you can take me home.” Sansa whispers.

Willas sighs. He can't do that. No one can do that. He does perch on the end of the bed though, knowing what he's about to say is almost treason. “Perhaps one day you shall go home.” He tells her. This is true, he supposes. They are told Robb Stark has turned around, heading back to the Twins to cross and retake Winterfell from the Ironborn. “Your brother is marching North again.”

“He is?” She looks hopeful, a small smile coming to her face that leaves Willas unable to smile too.

He doesn't voice his doubts though over whether the Freys will let him cross. He doesn't imagine the thought of her brother caught between the Twins and the Lannisters will help her sleep tonight. The rumour is though that there is to be a union between one of the Tullys and one of Lord Frey's daughters. So perhaps it is possible Robb Stark will make it home, Willas muses. It is even possible perhaps the King in the North will have the sense once there to try and bend the knee. Tommen is not the king Joffrey was, Willas thinks, and the Lannisters surely cannot want this war to last forever.

He sighs. Somehow he usually manages to forget that technically they are at war with Winterfell. Their forces have not met in the field and now that the Young Wolf is on the retreat, Willas hopes that such a situation will be avoided for good. Hopefully, if the Starks and Tyrells do meet, it will not be as enemies.

He smiles wryly then, making his mind up that if Robb Stark is indeed allowed to bend the knee, he will push for Loras to take her home to see her family. When he thinks about that a little more though, he realises he's not too sure how willing Loras will be to do that. Loras has never spoken of what happened in Renly's tent that night and yet Willas is aware that many lay the murder of Renly Baratheon at none other than Catelyn Stark's feet. He imagines that Loras will be just as likely to shove a sword through Sansa's mother's neck as he is to take her to see her. 

He sighs at the hopelessness of it all. “I'm sorry Sansa.” he whispers.

“What for?” She whispers back.

Willas sighs. “For everything Sansa. For Loras and for the fact that you can't go home.” He stands and limps to the door. He's just pulling it open when Sansa shakes her head.

"Stay." She breathes. And so Willas turns and sits himself back down. His leg will be aching no end by morning and yet he can't bear to leave her here alone with her tears.


	9. Sansa III

She doesn't see Ser Loras until dinner the next day and there is no apology, no acknowledgement that yesterday he had walked out on her and left her to her tears. He acts instead as if nothing has happened and kisses her on the cheek as he always does at dinner, a gesture of affection that Sansa now realises has never been affectionate.

She's not sure how to look at Ser Loras now, if she should look at him differently or be repelled by his touch as she thinks she ought to be. She's of course heard rumours of such men, those perverse creatures who shun what the Gods intended. The Father was made for the Mother, Sansa has been taught, and the Warrior for the Maiden, and yet since father died, she's not sure what she knows anymore.

She remembers well though Theon teasing Robb when he declined his invitation to accompany him to the nearby brothel, a place whose existence Sansa is sure she would never have known of if Theon had not been her father's ward. He'd called Robb a pansy and other words Sansa wouldn't ever dare repeat, and they'd both laughed before rounding on Jon to tease him instead. She hadn't understood what Theon had meant and despite her protests that ladies ought not to know perhaps, Arya had asked the stable boy, beating him with a stick when he said that little girls ought not to ask such questions.

She sighs as she thinks back to how things used to be and tries not to think about what Theon would become, what he has done. And as she picks at the honeyed apples and glazed lamb in front of her, she does her best to not dwell on poor Bran and Rickon. Instead, she pictures Winterfell as it always was. She's half sure in fact, that if she were to go home, that Father would be standing in the yard, watching Robb and Bran with their wooden swords, merely smiling as mother searched frantically for Arya, hidden somewhere in the castle with Jon as he helped her avoid Septa Mordane.

She pushes all that to the back of her mind as the next course arrives and returns to studying Ser Loras, wondering if she ought to have seen what she now knows. She watches him both with the serving girls who bring the dishes and the squires who pour the wine and yet he seems uninterested in both, ignoring them entirely as he talks to Ser Garlan. She wonders then whether perhaps Ser Loras is as disgusted by himself as other men are, that he doesn't give in to such unnatural desires and does his best to be like other men. She imagines that is what the course of action the septons would advise and yet she supposes that she'll probably never know. She has been his wife for some time now and yet she thinks she doesn't know him any better than she did when he gave her that first red rose.

She can't resist then letting her eyes flick to his eldest brother, sitting quietly opposite from her. Willas, she thinks, is everything Ser Loras is not. He's kind and gentle, with a voice that's soft and yet not disinterested and courteous like his brother's is whenever he speaks to her. Sat at the table like this, Sansa can't even see his twisted leg and she wonders not for the first time if this is the reason Willas has not yet married, if ladies do not want such a crippled husband. She imagines with a little guilt that she too might have been one of those ladies once, and yet now when she looks at him, she sees only WIllas and thinks that when her father used to tell her that one day she would marry a high lord who would be gentle and good to her, that Willas was the sort of man he had in mind.

He stayed with her last night, as she'd asked, sitting with her until she fell asleep. He was there too in the morning, smiling down at her when she woke up, even though she could see that he was exhausted. He'd been very proper, staying in the chair and leaving before she got dressed and yet a part of Sansa wished he hadn't been. She longed for someone to hold her, to stroke her hair, make her forget that she's all alone here and that Ser Loras doesn't want her, that father, and Bran, and Rickon, and Arya are all dead and never coming back.

She goes back to her chambers that night as usual and yet tonight she doesn't undress for Ser Loras and climbs into bed without giving any hint that he should bed her. She's not sure if she imagines it but she's almost sure she sees relief in his eyes when he evidently realises that she merely wants to go to sleep tonight. He does hold her though, slipping his hands around her waist rather awkwardly and mumbling something in her ear that she doesn't quite catch. She thinks it's an apology, an incoherent and rather reluctant one, but an apology none the less.

She doesn't sleep that night. Instead, she sits up and watches her husband. He's beautiful as usual, even in slumber, but that's not what interests her tonight for she finds that when she blurs her eyes slightly and stares hard into the darkness, she can imagine that he's Willas beside her, his leg stretched out awkwardly under the covers and out of her view.

...................................

She is rather surprised when life seems to carry on as normal despite Willas' revelation. It is evident that Willas has not told Ser Loras that she is now aware of his lack of interest in women and yet she is grateful. She knows Ser Loras well enough to know that he is proud beyond belief, and she doesn't think he would take well to being talked about behind his back.

She wonders though whether she ought to speak more with Willas with it, if he would be willing to tell her more. A week passes though without him making any reference to what he has told her and Sansa thinks perhaps that he is more comfortable not speaking of it.

Instead, she speaks to him of anything and everything else and slowly the mornings that they spent together in the stables turn into afternoons too, and Sansa begins to wonder whether he too looks at her as she looks at him. He certainly doesn't look at her the way the hound did that night when the Blackwater burned and yet Sansa wonders perhaps whether Willas is not capable of looking at anyone like that, that the composed eldest Tyrell would never show such raw and terrifying desire as the hound did.

She is rather grateful for that. She is hopeful that neither he nor Ser Loras will ever find out about her shameful desires. Her mother is not here to teach her and yet she doesn't need anyone to tell her that a wife must be loyal to her husband, stand by his side no matter what he does or what he is.

She tries to remember that one morning, when she wakes to Ser Loras sitting at the foot of the bed and she imagines that he shall want to try for an heir despite the fact that both of them do not enjoy it. She is all prepared to turn over for him and yet she stills when she looks a little closer and sees that her husband is already fully dressed. He looks exhausted too and there's an expression on his face that she doesn't know what to make of. He frowns as she sits up and comes to sit beside her, unusually affectionate as he brushes the hair from her face.

"You should get dressed." He whispers and he takes her hand and guides her to her feet. Something's wrong, Sansa can feel it. Ser Loras has always been gentle enough when he touches her and yet this morning, he is treating her like a porcelain doll.

"What's going on?" She asks, pulling on the nearest dress she can find, and not caring for once which one she has chosen. "Is something wrong?" She knows it is wrong of her to ask such direct questions of her husband and yet she can't shake the dread in the pit of her stomach.

Ser Loras bites his lip but remains silent. He seems to deliberate for a long time but then he sighs, bending to kiss her head. "I'll be in the gardens if you need me."

He shuts the door behind him and yet it's evident he's not gone yet. She can hear whispers outside, hushed urgent whispers that do little to ease her fears. Her heart stops when she hears that one of the other voices is Willas'. Fearfully, she wonders if Ser Loras somehow knows that she cannot stop thinking about his brother, or worse that _Willas_ knows.

She presses her ear to the door just as Arya used to do when Mother and Father would step outside to talk without them.

"I can't." Ser Loras is whispering. "I just can't. I don't know what to say Willas."

"And you think I do." Willas' voice sounds uncharacteristically shaky.

Another voice speaks then and Sansa relaxes when she realises it's Garlan, his low voice incomprehensible through the thick wooden door. She doesn't think that he would be here if Loras and Willas had somehow found her out. She thinks too that Ser Loras would sound angry rather than nervous.

She holds her breath as Loras speaks again, the thumping of her heart almost obscuring his words. "Obviously Garlan." He pauses and Sansa holds her breath. "But you're better with this sort of thing Willas. And she's fond of you, she trusts you." She begins to panic at what he's going to say next and yet when Loras does speak again, it's nothing to do with her. "You were always the one me and Margaery went to Willas."

There's a long pause and eventually she hears a muffled "Please?" and is rather confused as she doesn't think she's ever heard Ser Loras ask for something so.

There's a deep sigh then, followed by footsteps and the door beginning to creak open. She hurls herself across the room, wishing she'd sat nicely at her dressing table as she ought to have done, as any lady ought to have done. She's managed to sit down by the time the door opens and she can't help but smile when she sees that is indeed Willas who has come.

His face is as pained as Ser Loras' was though and now she knows that something is seriously wrong. Willas is always so reasonable, so calm. He wouldn't look so distressed without good reason. She just looks at him desperately as he comes to sit beside her, willing for him to tell her what is going on.

"Sansa," He says and she can see the effort behind every word. "I told you last week that your brother was marching north, going home." He pauses and he takes both of her hands in his as his voice breaks a little.

The next words that come out of his mouth make her blood freeze in her veins and she doesn't even feel Willas' hands clutching her or his arms holding her tight as what's left of her world collapses around her.

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after both Joffrey's death and Margaery's wedding to Tommen. It assumes that the Lannisters didn't uncover the Tyrell plot, and that Loras wasn't appointed to the Kingsguard. Slight canon divergence too in that the red wedding hasn't yet taken place.


End file.
